Wings, Rings and Interspecies Flings
by TheLadyPendragon
Summary: To save his soul from being damaged in Hell, Adam agrees to bond with Michael. What he doesn't know is, bonding is the angelic act of mating, so he and the antisocial archangel are all but married when raised from Perdition. Mike/Adam, Dean/Cas, Sam/Gabe.
1. Chap 1: Bonding Over Brimstone

**A/N: **This monster of a fanfic was written for LiveJournal's spn_j2_bigbang 2011. It's what I have toiled over for _at least_ the last six months of my life and I'm kind of proud of it, so I hope you enjoy this, which is the first of a six chapter, fifty-thousand word RomCom (no, really, it's as lighthearted as a romantic comedy).

**Title:** Wings, Rings and Interspecies Flings  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I still don't own _Supernatural_. Underlined things and pop-culture references aren't mine. Please don't replicate my silly work without permission.  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> PG-13 for sexual content (in chapter five, which ups to M, because I'll edit out as much of the NC-17 stuff as I can), coarse language, some violence, one instance of minor character death, some homophobia, minor original and show characters, blasphemy, whipped!Michael, creative license with setting, lack of true conflict in plot, overabundance of schmoop, domesticity and humor, dining of delicious foods that will leave you hungry, pop-culture references, occasional angst of Winchester proportions, voyeuristic angels, employment of cliché fanfic tropes, wing kinks explored, bonding as a means of angelic mating, mark kinks, spoilers for season six, and more. Avoid if you expect something ground-shattering and epic, rather than what essentially amounts to crack. Do not take seriously.  
><strong>PairingsCharacters:** Michael/Adam, with pre-slash Sam/Gabriel and Dean/Castiel  
><strong>Detailed Summary:<strong> The souls of sinners eventually develop callouses that protect them from the worst of the torture in Hell. Adam, unfortunately, has too little of these to count, so he jumps at the chance when Michael offers a solution that could save them both: binding his soul to the archangel's grace. It makes life in the Pit slightly more bearable, his soul is no longer in danger of being shredded, and Adam even comes to see Michael as a friend. When they are raised from Perdition, however, Adam realizes that there was a heck of a fine-print to this seemingly sweet deal: he and Michael are soul-mated and there's no such thing as divorce in Heaven. Marriage to an angel isn't all puppies and rainbows, especially when you're also juggling a family curse and some dewy-eyed bromance crap.

* * *

><p>Chapter One: Bonding Over Brimstone<p>

* * *

><p>There were a couple of reasons why Adam Milligan wasn't really gung-ho about becoming Winchester brother number three.<p>

For one thing, an _angel_ told him not to do it. He wanted to believe that he was ultimately a good person, and angels were on or even above par with cops and government officials for him. Except, apparently, even angels were not beyond corruption – just like cops and government officials – and how sad was the world for _that_ to be true?

Secondly, Sam and Dean were pretty nice guys, as far as he knew, but that was the problem – Adam didn't _know_ them, like, _at all_. Of course, he blamed dear old Dad for that, but come on, he wasn't a kid anymore – he wasn't about to jump at the chance of being coddled by a couple of strangers.

And last – or maybe in the vein of the latter reason – his brothers were codependent with each other to the point of making dysfunctional look sane – _erotically so_, as Zachariah, corrupt angel extraordinaire, had very helpfully supplied. Adam was nothing if not independent.

He hadn't exaggerated in the slightest to them. He'd been walking himself home from school and clubs, feeding himself and putting himself to bed, since he was barely able to walk, still barely a baby. He no longer wished for someone – read: his father – to swoop into his life and take care of him. Maybe if they'd been a few years earlier…

So, no, Adam was perfectly fine being an average Joe-Shmoe, rather than one of the illustrious Winchesters. But he had to admit that he _was_ touched by the fact that his brothers – yeah, he could accept it now, at least in the biological sense – came to his rescue after he was two-timed by a freaking _angel_. Can't you tell, he was still just a tiny bit bitter about that?

And that was why he wouldn't have really minded being stuck in Hell with Sam, since the only silver lining in a situation like that was that he could get to know his older half-brother, maybe even bond with him. At least for a little while, anyway, because _damn_, he'd never done anything _so_ bad that he deserved to be stuck _down there_ forever, where people like Hitler and Stalin did the eternal limbo, especially since he went out of his way to help little old ladies across the street. That should have made him a shoe-in for Heaven, right?

But, of course, God must have hated his guts, because why else would Adam get eaten alive, be revived only to be dicked around by the whole of the Heavenly host, then die _again_, this time with no peaceful afterlife in sight? Maybe he'd cut off a voodoo priest in traffic during a past life or something. So, obviously, that – something that _might_ have been the smallest sliver of good in Adam's world of suck – didn't end up happening.

Instead, it was _Michael_ he said yes to, rather than trusting his own flesh and blood. It wasn't his fault, really. He'd _tried_ saying no, if only to spite that bastard Zachariah and his feather-brained goons, but Michael had employed some mind-boggling tactics that, well, boggled his mind – hence Adam's use of the adjective _mind-boggling_.

Where Zachariah took sadistic pleasure in watching Adam spew his bloody guts out, Michael literally employed the kill-with-kindness tactic. The first thing he did was bear down on a cowering Adam – and the only reason he was cowering was that the archangel was the size of the freaking _Earth_, just so we're clear – reach out what Adam assumed to be his hand and heal him in a sudden rush of power that was like ecstasy or adrenaline or some other kind of chemical that pumped you up, made you feel like you were flying, as if you were Leonardo DiCaprio at the stern of the _Titanic_, like you were immortal and nothing could ever hurt you again.

Oh, and he was _shiny_.

…What, _you_ wouldn't pick the guy that sparkled like a trillion fireflies over the one with a million ugly mugs, one of which was a hungry lion? Adam now kind of understood the appeal of that gay _Twilight_ vampire guy, Edwin or something.

So, yeah, Adam said yes, and then he was pushed back into the deepest recesses of his mind – what he called his happy place and what Michael referred to as his inner sanctum, or something cheesy like that. He could still see, feel, smell, taste and touch, but vaguely. It was as if he'd been rolled up into a film of bubble-wrap, which muffled every sensation till it was nearly nonexistent and yet still _there_, no matter how paradoxical that might have translated to.

He drunkenly watched Michael first order around his troops and then take on Lucifer, only hazily noting that the devil was wearing his middle brother like an overgrown, earth-toned jumpsuit. He felt only the smallest spike of fear when Dean, bright boy that he was, decided it would be an _awesome_ idea to take on the Lord of the Flies himself – not to mention Heaven's most powerful warrior. He even felt the pinching sensation of being blown up, courtesy of Castiel. Not fun _at all_, for your information.

However, when it came right down to it, Adam remembered _every small detail_ of falling into the Pit with perfect precision. Sam's hand had felt slightly clammy when it wrapped around his thin wrist, but unrelenting as the giant man dragged him down. Michael parted Adam's lips into a tiny 'o' of shock, but he would have been inclined to do something much worse, like shriek in an embarrassing, not-so-masculine manner, if he'd been in control of his own body, so he didn't really mind. Falling itself was like being sucked into a vacuum, compressed into a hole that was at once pulling him apart and pressing down on him, cracking a few ribs in the process.

And then, suddenly, Adam Milligan was checked into Hotel Hell. His roommate: the archangel Michael.

…Fun.

* * *

><p>Falling hurt like a motherfucker for what felt like <em>years<em>. Part of the reason was that Adam and Michael – because they were not, for all intents and purposes, actually _one_ being – were literally torn apart, molecule by human and angel molecule, and unceremoniously dumped into the very lowest level of Hell, maybe even under that ninth circle Dante had written about. And there wasn't exactly something soft to cushion his fall, mind you. Brimstone smarted like a bitch when you slammed into it from bazillions of feet above sea level.

Adam remembered the impact and the way spidery cracks formed around an amusingly Adam-shaped hole, something straight out of an old _Loony Toons_ reel, and then there was nothing but darkness.

When Adam woke up, he thought the whole thing with the angels, the devil and his half-brothers must have been some freaky, excess-of-caffeine induced dream, because shit like that didn't happen in real life, and because a bright and beautiful sun was shining hopefully into his face, while a campfire sat invitingly in front of him, which prompted him to wonder if he'd fallen asleep outside somewhere, no doubt happily wasted.

Of course, this illusion of tranquility lasted, _oh_, about three seconds before he realized that _his_ reality was a gas-station toilet, fucked by every grimy freak who came in to make a rest-stop, because his whole body ached to its very core like he'd just had a throw-down with Godzilla, Mothra and _all _of their mutated, sexually unidentifiable friends. Obviously he'd _lost_.

Not to mention that, if he squinted into the light focusing on his face, he could make out huge, spanning feathers that arched into wings, flaring like wispy fire, and soon the light itself began to congeal into a more recognizable form – almost mannish, but _not_ at the same time. And it definitely _wasn't_ a campfire, unless it was for Bible camp.

Adam knew at once that it was Michael, because it hulked over him the same way the archangel had in the green room, and it reminded him of that luminescent being he'd met not long ago, filling him with the same warmth – the same, probably unmerited feeling of safety.

"Are you all right?" the archangel trilled in his angel-language, which was more song than words, soft and loud all at once, the native tongue of every imaginable land. It was creepy, especially since the big, searing balls of flames that passed for Michael's eyes bore into him hungrily, as if his body was a refrigerator and the soul inside was Michael's midnight snack. Adam felt himself back away, his palms scraping on rough brimstone, while the archangel tilted the giant globe that was his head, actually hurt. And that, damn it, made Adam feel bad, but could you blame him for being a little paranoid? Dude looked like an alien!

He cleared his throat to battle his discomfort. "So, uh, I take it we – _you_– didn't defeat the devil, huh?"

"No, unfortunately not," Michael replied, craning his endlessly long neck.

Adam followed his gaze up and felt his jaw drop, having found another source of light, which he'd mistakenly believed to be the sun. It was a giant marble-like thing, hanging in midair, that flashed dangerously every few seconds, reminiscent of the New Year's ball he and his mom used to watch on T.V., on the eve of January first, waiting for the next year to start. Or, you know, a nuclear weapon waiting for some weird guy with a claw-hand and a cat to detonate it. Details, details.

"W-what is that?" he asked, hating the quiver that developed in his voice.

Michael regarded him closely for a few moments – moments that were, perhaps, years or only milliseconds in their new home – before he seemed to find whatever he was looking for, and he explained, "We are in the Pit and the sphere above us is the Cage, where my errant brother now and forever resides."

Oh, so Lucy was the flashy thing? That made sense. Adam didn't remember Sunday school very well, having dropped it like a hot plate as soon as his mother let him take up more desirable activities, but the devil had been an angel once, he knew, and wasn't he ironically the angel of light?

He didn't muse all that aloud, although Michael had been riding him long enough to probably know how his mind worked by now, but he did wonder, "And my brother? What happened to Sam?"

When Michael didn't immediately respond, he came to his own conclusions. Sam wasn't in Hell, was he? After all, _he_ was one of the important ones, while Adam was only the _half-brother_. Figured that all of the crap he'd thought was so very important, that he done back-flips for, hadn't been worth a rat's ass. No, little Suzy, good grades, being a dutiful child, never going overboard with all that shitty gluttony stuff, and trying to _help_ people will _not_ get you into Heaven – not for long, anyway. It might just get you a one-way ticket to _Hell_.

And then warmth washed over him, briefly soothing the ache in his mind, his heart and his body – maybe even his _soul_ – and Michael's voice was a sort of lullaby. "Sam is...in there, with Lucifer."

Adam eyes bugged out. "_What_? _Why_? Better yet, why aren't _we _in there with them?"

Michael ducked his head. If he wasn't a glowing, vaguely human-shaped blob, Adam would assume the expression he wore was contrite, sheepish, perhaps even guilty. "It took all I had to bring _you_ down here, to relative safety. I couldn't risk you for Sam." He said it with finality.

Adam frowned. Okay, so he'd kind of been mentally bitching about the universe's blatant favoritism for his brothers, but _still_, he didn't want anyone saving him at the expense of someone else, especially if it was his _brother_ being served up on a silver platter. _Come on_, he might have been the descendant of Cain or Abel or whoever, but he was not about to go all _Genesis_ on Sam's ass.

Michael's massive frame drooped as he sighed, his wings curving and fluttering down in a waterfall of feathers behind him, and Adam couldn't help the way his eyes were drawn to them. They were beautiful. "You are thinking like a Winchester. I don't like it."

Adam pressed his lips together tightly and then opened his mouth to reply. He _still_ wasn't a Winchester, damn it; he was and would always be a Milligan! But then a wave of pain bowled into him, so powerful that it took his breath away, leaving him unable to even cry out, to do anything but fall back and hit the hard brimstone. He tried desperately to curl into himself, though his smart-ass logic told him that doing so would do absolutely _nothing_ against whatever preternatural forces dished out the dirty in Hell. Fuck you, logic, he screamed in his head. Fuck, now he was talking to himself…and apparently stuck on the word _fuck_. See, _SAT_ vocabulary, you're not nearly as useful as you thought!

At once, Michael's mojo – his grace, as the archangel had referred to it – pushed back against the anguish.

"I feared that this would happen," Heaven's mightiest warrior murmured, when Adam's suffering was at last manageable enough for him to pretend it wasn't there – even though the stupid, agonizing bitch was saying, 'Here I am! Here I am! Look at me! Wanna feel like your appendix is bursting next? Or would you rather have a heart attack?' Damn imaginary bastard.

"Feared _what_ would happen?" Adam repeated weakly, too exhausted to even be suspicious.

"I may have kept us out of the way of Lucifer's wrath, but we're far from safe. Not even the worst human souls can survive this deep in Hell, especially ones as pure as yours." When Adam glared at him – because 'pure soul' made him sound like a nun, not a perfectly normal teenage boy – Michael clarified, "I didn't intend to offend you. I only meant, sinning, though the principal reason human souls reside in Hell, leaves calluses on them, making them undesirable to Heaven, but protecting them from the torment within Hell. Thus, souls like yours, belonging to the side of good, truly suffer the worst when left here. Generally, this happens if they have made a deal with a demon, because even the brightest souls are not above temptation, but you have always been something of a special case – all Winchesters are – and that only means you're in _more_ danger. Being in Hell for an extended period of time will shred your soul entirely."

Adam bit his lip till it tore, scared more than annoyed, but now was not the time to punctuate that he wasn't a Winchester, yet again. "So, what you're saying is, you saved me from whatever Sam's going through up there, but I'm still gonna die? That's great – just freaking _peachy_! And here I thought getting eaten alive was as bad as it would get!"

"We will _both _die," Michael emphasized, and he seemed oddly undaunted by this. "Angels, Lucifer exempted, do not belong down here, either. The Pit and the Cage were created to cater to him, specifically." He grew silent, flaming eyes never leaving his tiny human charge, while Adam felt the humiliating urge to cry.

He tucked his face into the worn material of his jeans,wondering if the moisture would do anything against the blood and grime. He'd always been something of a neat-freak, taking comfort in looking after their house when his mom wasn't around, but he didn't suppose that would come in handy now.

More time passed. Adam didn't really know how long, but Michael kept the pain, which came in too short intervals, at bay. Adam was observant, however, especially for someone who'd never known that the monsters under his bed – literally, in the Milligans' case – were real, and the archangel's form flickered weakly each time, seeming scarcely a tint duller after each of his healing spells. This would kill Michael faster than it would him if it went on, because Michael was keeping him alive. Adam would be all alone when the angel was gone.

The next surge of agony made his teeth crack, but when Michael moved to help him, Adam held up a hand – not that it could do much to impede the angel, if he really wanted to get through it, but it was the thought, brimming with fierce determination, that counted.

"S-stop! If I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die, but I won't drag you down with me." The idea of fading away like that terrified him. His soul would be 'shredded', Michael had said, which meant no hereafter _at all_ for him, but maybe that was better than lies from the angels who ran Heaven and being tortured for eternity in Hell. Maybe nothingness was the only escape he'd ever get, although nonexistence was a scary thought.

Michael eyed him uncertainly, but he halted as bidden. After a moment, his whole body expanded as he did something Adam didn't even think he could: inhale. "There is another way. We could both be saved, but–"

Adam wasn't usually impatient – if anything, he was a take-your-sweet-ass-time kind of guy – but he cut the angel off right there. "What do you mean, _but_? What do you have to do?" He refrained from adding, "Just fucking _do it_ already!" because someone with even half a brain should know not to boss an _angel_ around, unless they wanted their ass smote.

"–but the spell is not recommended," Michael continued fluidly, as if he'd never been interrupted in the first place. "I would require your permission to even _begin_ to assuage my guilt."

"_Dying_ isn't exactly something _I'd_ recommend, either," Adam said, taking on the I-know-best tone physicians everywhere had perfected. He'd always promised himself he would be way less of a patronizing jackass than any of the doctors he'd had when he finished med-school, but it didn't seem like he'd get a chance to prove it anytime soon. "Also, if I do die, you'll totally be guilty anyway, because I will haunt you, the judge, jury _and_ executioner. _Have me_." When Michael merely stared, he flushed, abruptly realizing how it sounded like a come-on.

Michael looked away, resuming in a murmur, "It will not get us out of here, unfortunately. To free a soul from Hell requires more than mere power – grace. When that _malakhim_, Castiel, raised your brother from Perdition, he and an entire garrison of my brethren laid siege to Hell, and still many died. Breaching the Pit has never before been attempted." The bare bones of the matter was, they were stuck, presumably forever, and although the archangel's tone belied no distress, his eyes had darkened to the color of coal after a barbeque, when you took a fire extinguisher to it – dying, fading, hopeless.

Adam wasn't a psychic or anything, and the news made whatever optimism that remained sink down into his belly, but he couldn't resist saying, "Hey, it'll be okay," just because he hated seeing the all-powerful angel reduced to something as downtrodden as this, like a puppy that had been kicked one too many times. He struggled to sit up, feeling his rib-cage crackle like aged paper ready to crumble under the pressure, and shakily touched the angel's lustrous form. The twin coals blinked back at him, perhaps even faintly startled.

"So you would not be averse to the idea?" Michael eventually asked, still quiet, but thankfully brighter.

Adam nodded. It was stupid, the small, rational bit of his brain told him, because he didn't even know _what _the idea was, and it went against every conscientious part of him, which had picked apart every aspect of his college applications and acceptance letters before making a final decision. His mother had roped her friend, a corporate lawyer for Windom Memorial, into talking him through it, and she'd given him one core piece of advice: never overlook even the smallest of terms. This was a Hell of a fine-print that he was ignoring; he just didn't know it yet.

"If you are sure, then fine." Michael gave his own slow nod and then went entirely static, his eyes shutting behind flaring lids. He was so still that he looked more like a wall of flame than anything, so huge that he could have put the Great Wall of China to shame.

Adam set his chin down on the tops of his knees, circling them with his skinny arms, and silently watched. It was probably because of his diligent observance that he noticed how the archangel blazed more and more for every minute that passed. Eventually, the light became so intense that it overtook Lucifer's frantic bursts above them, so Adam couldn't bear to look straight into it anymore. And then it started.

With seemingly no rhyme or reason, Michael exploded. Adam distantly wondered if he actually _liked_ the sensation, with how frequently it seemed to happen to him. Soon, all of his displaced particles closed back in on a single flaming ball, similar but not congruent to the Cage, suggestive of missiles with homing sensors. A more humanoid being, about Adam's height, formed after that, standing before him. Its eyes twinkled.

"Uh, wow," was all Adam could manage, musing that Michael looked almost normal. It might have been his imagination, but the shimmering ball that was Michael's head split into a mockery of a human smile.

"Thank you. I took this visage so you might be more comfortable during the ceremony. I am glad it is to your liking." That was all the courtesy the angel had time for, as he clapped his hands – now equipped with five flashlight-beam fingers each – and began to chant. It was beautiful, to say the least, but the words – if they even were words – passed through Michael's lips too fast to comprehend.

It sounded more like humming – that of a thousand hummingbirds. Finally, the angel clasped his hands together once more, thunderous in comparison to his sing-song mantra, and said what phonetically sounded like, "Parakleda, allar, a-m-ipzi," but could just as likely have been gibberish.

Adam gaped at him. "Is it... Are you done?"

Instead of answering him, Michael simply said, "This will hurt," and lurched forward before Adam could do anything to defend himself, one of his hands searing into Adam's back, just to the side of his left shoulder-blade, dissolving right through his clothes, while a single finger traced rapidly over the pale expanse of the his forehead, forming something star-shaped.

It did hurt. It hurt a fucking lot, thank you very much, burning away his skin, his muscles, his bones, his organs – _everything_. It hurt so badly that all Adam could think about was _how much_ it hurt – how hurt he was that yet another angel, that _this_ angel, had betrayed him all over again. He was probably going to die no matter what Michael had promised.

The archangel in question caught him when he slumped forward, moving his other hand to mirror its twin, doing more of the strange, ninja-like gestures. Adam fainted.

* * *

><p>"U-um, are you okay? Adam? Er, Mr. Milligan?" Adam shot up like a bullet when a timid hand touched his shoulder, whipping his head around wildly. He was sitting on a rather unsanitary, sagging couch, and he fought the urge to spring away from it in disgust.<p>

Instead, he looked up at the man who'd been calling his name. He was short – very short – with messy brown curls, nervous, constantly shifting eyes and a rough three day beard.

The room behind him, the majority of it taken up by a giant writing desk, suited the man entirely, scattered with beer bottles and loose sheets of paper as it was. There was an aged desktop on the scarred mahogany antique, bookshelves filled with loosely-bound books behind it.

"W-where am I?" Adam asked, clearing his throat. Had Michael managed it somehow? Was he out of Hell?

"You're dreaming," the man said, not unkindly. Adam let his face fall, unable to hide his disappointment. The man hesitantly dropped a hand on his shoulder again. "Hey, it'll be okay, okay?" Adam distinctly remembered saying something similar to Michael, a lie then and now, so he snorted. "No, really, it's true. Wouldn't have left him alone if I didn't know Mike was a resourceful guy."

Adam looked up at the quirky man again. "Mike?" He frowned, jerking his shoulder out of his grasp. "Who the Hell are you, anyway? How do you know me? You an angel or something?"

The man kneaded his fingers together skittishly, biting his lip, as his eyes floated from one corner of the room to another. "I-I'm Chuck Shurley, a-a friend of your brothers… Or, at least, I _hope_ they consider us friends. And I'm not an angel, I promise." Adam was still somewhat leery, since fun-times with Zack had taught him not to believe everything he heard straight-away. If he wasn't an angel, how the Hell did Chuck know all the crap that he did? As if reading his mind, the man answered, "I know you – _everything _about you Winchesters – because I'm a prophet. But, um, don't worry, we don't have any scary powers or anything. We just watch."

"Dude… Chuck, that's voyeurism, man. Totally creepy's what it is," Adam punctuated slowly, watching as Chuck's shoulders drooped.

"It's not on _purpose_!" the man exclaimed, face going red. "You guys aren't exactly easy on the eyes. For me, anyway." He began to mutter unintelligibly to himself – something about fangirls.

"Hey, don't feel bad," Adam replied, not bothering to protest. "I totally get what you mean, but…if you're a prophet, then tell me, will I be stuck down there forever?" A cold pit formed in his stomach at the very thought.

Chuck brought his hands down to pick at the wrinkled material of his shirt, doing and undoing a worn button on it. "I really am sorry, Adam. I didn't mean for you to draw the short lot, I'll admit," he said quietly, seriously, and Adam didn't know what to make of his sudden change of demeanor. Then, the man blinked and continued, "But don't give up. Like I said, things will get better."

Before Adam could ask him to clarify – really, was an answer too much to fucking ask for? He wasn't above throttling the little guy to get one, if it came to that – a chirping call resounded from an outer room.

"Chucky, are you in your study?" a bouncy feminine voice inquired. "I have _marzipan_!" She sounded as if she thought that the sweet confection was the answer to every last mystery in the universe. If only _that_ was true, Adam would have taken up baking years ago.

Chuck's already huge eyes widened dramatically. "Y-you should go now! You don't want her to get her hands on you, trust me," he advised, dry lips twitching as if he wasn't sure whether to smile to whimper. Adam tried to protest, but the small man grabbed him by the arm, abruptly imposing and strong. "Don't worry, though, okay? It was an interesting choice he made, but I approve. He'll do right by you."

Before Adam could voice his thoughts, which mostly consisted of the theory that Chuck was drunk off his ass, he was gone.

Damn, that had to stop happening.

* * *

><p>Adam woke up in Hell – for the second time – feeling really, really <em>awesome<em>. Nothing hurt anymore and his whole body tingled with the pleasantness he associated with only a couple of things: a good night's sleep, a _better _night's tumble in the sack, and the sort, which was weird, seeing as dreaming about jumpy little men wasn't exactly the stuff of fantasies. The fact that no brimstone poked into his skin was an added bonus.

Of course, when he noticed why, exactly, _that_ was, he scrabbled off of a very confused Michael's lap as if spiders had been crawling all over him. The archangel was once again huge enough to comfortably situate his former vessel, Adam noted, and Michael's heated skin had felt nice, almost soothing – more of a balm than the nuclear bomb you'd usually take him for.

"I am glad to see you're feeling better," he said to a scowling Adam. "The pain should be all but gone by now."

It was, but still… "Damn it, that _hurt_, you ass!"

Michael didn't bat an eyelid. "And I believe I informed you that it would, did I not?"

Adam pursed his lips together and turned around full circle, so he didn't have to look at the angel anymore. Okay, so he was sulking and it wasn't exactly mature, but whatever. "You suck," he sniped.

"It wasn't my intention to harm you, Adam, neither physically nor emotionally," the archangel murmured, almost pleadingly. However, when Adam looked at him out of the corner of his eye – it was hard not to catch sight of something so massive – he was resplendent like the human had never seen him before, even in the green room. Huh, so they were both feeling better, were they?

Despite that, they sat in silence for what felt like decades, with Adam counting cracks in the brimstone ahead of him while Michael scrutinized his profile, probably reading from the stubborn set of his mouth and chin that he wouldn't respond to attempted amiableness.

Finally, _finally_, Adam got fed up with giving the only other sentient being in the Pit the cold shoulder. He sighed, turned back around, and declared, "I guess I can forgive you," somewhat reluctantly.

"You're very kind," the archangel replied, the faintest hint of amusement coloring his tone. "Your mercy knows no ends, it seems."

Oddly enough, he was teasing. Whatever, Adam didn't care. He was bored out of his mind and he had a trillion year old warrior angel in front of him. Why not make use of that, right?

"Could you, I dunno, tell me stories or something? You must have seen some epic shit in your life." He tried – and failed – not to sound too eager.

Michael hummed thoughtfully. "You like stories," he stated at random. "Your mother…she used to hold you in her lap when you were upset and spin great tales for you."

Adam almost regretted ever making the request, but all he said was, "Yeah, and don't get any ideas," remembering how – and where – he'd woken up. He'd go pretty far for entertainment down here, but not so far as to become easy prey to the predatory being before him.

Michael smiled that weird not-quite-smile again. "You've heard the tale of Adam and Eve, have you not? Of your namesake?" At Adam's nod, he continued, "Well, let me tell you the _true_ story…"

And that was the start of a beautiful friendship. Fucked up, but beautiful, nonetheless.

* * *

><p>After that, Hell got better. It wasn't quite up there with Heaven – both literally and metaphorically – because, while Michael fascinated Adam to no end, he wasn't a hot chick or even a hot dude whom Adam could make out with. All the same, rampant teenage hormones aside, Adam wasn't about to get choosy so soon after begging.<p>

Every day, Michael would tell him stories. They took epic to a whole new level, as promised, with prose better than Homer's _Iliad_ or _Odyssey_, though Adam had always been a fan of ancient myth.

They were about _everything_: from Lucifer's fall to the last time the true vessels had appeared on Earth and angels had walked alongside mankind. Michael told him about his battles, but also about life in Heaven for angels, the every day and the extraordinary. He even spoke, somewhat warily, of the Winchesters and their adventures, which Adam couldn't help feeling enamored with, if only because, no matter how much he wanted to hate them, they were his brothers and his father – his family.

Thankfully, Adam managed to condition the habit of telling more, what could he say, _intimate_ stories, out of Michael. Some things, you never wanted to know, even about – especially about – people you were supposed to unconditionally love.

Adam eventually grew so comfortable looking into those sun-bright eyes that he told Michael some stories of his own. He told him about his life with his mom, how awesome she'd been, and how hard she'd tried to raise Adam on her own. He told him about what family they'd had outside of each other, and what friends had become something like family over the years. He told him about John Winchester's imposition on his life, and how much it had hurt him when the man had to leave, particularly now that he knew how John had better sons to get back to, no matter what Adam did to win him over.

Of course, he realized that they were probably stupid by comparison, since the angel had the abridged version of his life simply because Adam was his – or one of his – bloodline vessels, but they meant a lot to Adam – they _were _him, these stories. Michael, for his part, seemed to sense that, and he always listened with a serious sort of patience and dedication that left Adam feeling both proud and immature, similar to a little kid who went up to a soldier and told him about the make-believe adventures of his action figures.

Sometimes, disregarding how far they'd come with each other – how Adam could _almost_ consider Michael his friend – they didn't really talk at all. Instead, Adam sat watching the Cage, whispering softly to Sam, and Michael sat watching him, somehow never losing interest in his doe-eyed human vessel with a sweet face and a sharp tongue.

Adam hadn't forgotten about his brother – not by a long shot – but he didn't know what to do for him, either. He honestly was a nobody – not as strategically brilliant as Sam nor as righteously heroic as Dean – so he couldn't do anything but _talk_ to Sam, hoping against hope that his giant brother would hear him, and that it would somehow help him forget his ordeal. Adam wasn't exactly the go-to-guy when it came to supernatural creatures, but he knew in his gut that he'd lucked out with Michael where Sam surely hadn't with Lucifer. A guilty part of him was happy about it, but he stamped it down whenever it reared its ugly head. Mostly, he wished Sam was down here, with him, so he could rant and rave about being yanked down with the big idiot, but he could do it while certain that Sam was safe and sound.

Of course, it was looking more and more likely that Sam couldn't hear him. After all, _he_ couldn't hear _Sam_, and he didn't want to think that it was because Sam would rather not answer. He'd been all for the dewy-eyed bromance crap earlier, after all, but that was before Adam had stepped into Benedict Arnold's cowhide boots, so who knew? Maybe Sam was giving him the silent treatment? Either way, it was so damn unfair that Adam sometimes wanted to throw masculinity to the wind and bawl like a baby.

One day, after another of his failed communicate-with-Sam ploys, Michael said, "Your mother…her Heaven is the day you were born." He said it so calmly, as if he was only commenting on something mundane, on something like the weather, yet Adam felt anything but composed. He just listened, though, as the angel continued in his soft, lilting voice, "You were so fragile, reminding her of a precious doll she'd had in her youth. She'd been very afraid for the whole eight months she knew about you – she hadn't known she was expecting the first month – but all those anxieties left when her doctor-friend wiped you clean and handed you to her in a blue fleece blanket. You were small and perfect, all tufts of soft blond hair and sleepy blue eyes, and she thought you were a little angel." There was affection in his tone, and amusement, too, at this ironic comparison. "From what I know, you were a beautiful infant, ten little toes and ten fingers always eager to touch, but you inspired new fear in her. She was afraid of everything that could hurt you – imaginary threats, criminals who targeted children, animals, even your father – and she was right to be, wasn't she? She loved you very much."

"I-I loved her, too…" Adam finally whispered. "So fucking much. I love her so fucking much."

The tears leaked out as if some dam broke. She was up there, holding baby him forever, and it was the happiest moment of her life all over again, but it wasn't really _him_. They were the farthest two people could possibly be from each other. He'd kept himself from thinking about it for so long, knowing it'd destroy him if he did, but he could acknowledge it now: he wasn't ever going to see her again.

"I am truly sorry," Michael said, evidently penitent, and Adam let himself break.

After that, the archangel learned to pick at less raw wounds. Sometimes, to break the rhythm of their conversations, he told Adam about the afterlives of the people whom he'd once loved, who'd died and left him behind.

He told Adam about his first best friend, a little girl called Lily, who'd just stopped coming to kindergarten one day – "She was really sick, baby. Cancer," his mom had later informed him – who now spent her days on a ranch in Texas, happily riding the ponies she'd always loved. He told Adam about Grandpa Max, Kate's only living parent upon Adam's birth, who used to take the little boy fishing every summer, till a severe stroke had left him immobilized. Now, however, he married the beautiful woman of his dreams each and every day, his Eva, Kate's mother. He even told Adam about John, whose Heaven was unlike anyone else's: a day playing toss-the-football with three year old Dean; kissing his wife Mary after Sam's difficult birth, the squirming baby held lovingly between them; and, against all odds, watching a baseball game with Adam on his thirteenth birthday. Adam agreed that their second visit was much better, because the first, during his twelfth birthday, had been nerve-racking for both of them.

Hearing these stories hurt, but it was a good kind of hurt – the kind that eventually scabbed over and healed.

And then the day came when everything changed.

* * *

><p>It started out like any other day in Hell. After those first two knock outs, Adam never slept or dreamed, so it wasn't much of a start at all, only an endless continuation.<p>

It was another Sam-day, and those weren't as rare as you'd think they'd be, considering the Sasquatch never replied. Adam had always been an imaginative, thoughtful person, and it was almost fun to take what he knew of Sam to piece together replies to the things he said. Yeah…so it was kind of pathetic, but he didn't really care.

He was in the middle of explaining the plot of a book-series he'd read a few years back, P_ercy Jackson and the Olympians_, but he took Sam to be more of a _Harry Potter_ kind of guy, for whatever reason; he just had a Hagridish feel to him, that was all. And then, suddenly, the air above them combusted into a billion pieces, Michael immediately surging to Adam's defense, so he let thoughts of prepubescent heroes trickle into nonentity.

The thing about Hell was, its sky was mostly blocked by the Cage, and everything over that, contrary to popular belief about hanging bats and ceaseless night, was daylight, although there was no sun that Adam could find – or maybe it would be more apt to say that the Cage _was_ the sun and old Lucy was its core. So, yeah, it was a pretty big thing when lighting – fucking _lightning_, of all things – burst out from behind the Cage, long as the encircling arms of a lover, and filtered into the shape of an angel – something like Michael, but not.

Adam thought it was an angel, anyway, but he could barely see, what with how Michael held him so close to his massive body, his huge wings wrapped protectively around them both.

The archangel only pulled away when the new arrival barked, "Michael," sharp and maybe even slightly relieved.

"R-Raphael?" Michael asked, and it was the first time that he was ever truly caught off guard, in the years that Adam had known him.

Adam used this distraction to his own advantage, squirming away from the archangel to analyze the newcomer. Where Michael was the pure embodiment of fire – his eyes, his wings and his very form comprised of white hot flames – this guy was all storms, electric blue sparks of lightning molding together to shape him, perfect lightning bolts shooting out to create the skeletal structure of his wings.

"Yes, brother," he began, and even his voice clapped like thunder, making Adam's knees go so weak that he had to cling to Michael for support – not that the angel noticed, since he'd been all eyes for this Raphael guy since he'd got here, which left Adam feeling unexpectedly jealous.

He told himself that it was normal, since anyone would feel that way after going from the apple of someone's eye to absolutely nothing in a New York minute, but it wasn't reassuring. It didn't help that Raphael passed his spark-plug eyes over Adam disdainfully, as if he was a little fly stuck in Michael's honey, waiting to be scooped out and swatted. "I am here to free you from this loathsome place, Michael. Heaven has been in shambles since you left. That foolish child, Castiel, tries to claim what could never be his."

Even though the archangel ignored Adam – and quite purposefully – he suddenly felt giddy. "All right! We're finally going to get out of here!" he said, his face rending into a brilliant grin.

"We?" Raphael laughed outright, growing first loud, then silencing gradually, as thunder did when a storm drew farther and farther away. "There is no 'we,' boy. You Winchesters… Well, _I_ certainly don't mind you rotting here, though I'm surprised you haven't already withered away. Like roaches, you brothers are."

Adam's stomach dropped. He now knew how Winston McNaughton felt when he was picked last during gym every single day of sophomore year. But then he sensed Michael's wings brushing along the length of his body, offering him comfort.

"I understand that the risk to free Samuel Winchester may be too high, as Lucifer might also be liberated with his vessel, but I will not leave mine," the archangel said, determined, and Adam felt so damn _grateful_.

Raphael's eyes bugged out in what might have been a comical way, if he wasn't so shit-your-pants scary. "What? This boy – you would persist in Hell for _this boy_? I can't even believe this has come into question!" The look he gave Adam made his skin crawl. It was official – he never wanted to meet Raphael in a dark alley, although frying Adam till he was extra crispy could probably light up even Sutherland, Africa, let alone a graffiti-tagged backstreet.

Michael stepped a minute distance away from his charge, but before Adam could panic, the archangel said to his brother, "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't leave him. You asked how he was still alive. Don't tell me you cannot sense what I have done?"

Raphael made a snorting sound, but leered closer curiously, and Michael allowed him to. It didn't take long at all for the temperamental angel to pull back, a hole the size of Adam's head splitting his enormous face into an alien expression of terror and disgust. If you looked close enough, Adam thought you could see Jupiter's eternal storm within it.

"You didn't," the angel gasped, revulsion palpable between them, not really much of a question.

"It was the only way," Michael answered calmly.

"Ha! You know that isn't why," Raphael scoffed, his eyes burning with hate, though Adam couldn't fathom who the brunt of it was directed at: Adam or Raphael's archangel kin. He was pissed the fuck off, that was for sure, his entire body sizzling, his wings especially, in response to his anger. For a second, Adam thought he might attack them, and he worried over Michael, but then Raphael eventually muttered, "I wish I could dump you here, traitor that you are, to suffer with that cretin Lucifer for eternity. In spite of this, it wouldn't be wise of me. There is no one more powerful than you, so only you can handle Castiel, no matter how I wish I could tear the wings off you both. Come."

With that, the archangel turned and began to flap his massive wings, wind sweeping around him like a cow-tipping cyclone in Kansas. He flew up toward the Cage, sparing not a single glance over his shoulder, and Michael paused to bend down to Adam's level, peering into his eyes.

"With Raphael's aid, we should be able to traverse through the Cage without alerting Lucifer or incurring his rage," the angel explained, his huge hands, almost as tall as Adam's torso, on either side of the boy, lingering. "I will have to hold you. I know that makes you uncomfortable, so I'm providing – what do the humans call it? – 'fair warning'."

Adam frowned. Yes, it did make him pretty uncomfortable to be held by the angel – mostly because he was to Anne Darrow as Michael was to _King Kong_– but he had his priorities straight, analogies aside.

"What about Sam?" he asked, stuck on what the archangel had told Raphael. "You aren't seriously going to leave him, are you? You're gonna, I don't know, swipe him when your brothers aren't looking?"

Michael's wings drooped. "I am sorry," the angel said and that was answer enough. "If you stay, I will stay with you, but I beg you to come away with me."

Adam didn't know how to reply. Could he leave Sam behind? What would Sam do in his place? Was he any help to his brother even if he stayed? Could he really let Michael suffer alongside him without knowing any of that, definitively? It really came down to that – to Michael.

Eventually, he sighed, curling his comparatively tiny hands around Michael's long fingers, so huge that Adam couldn't even wrap all five of his digits all the way around one, even though he'd never been what could be considered small – for a human, anyway. He nodded.

Michael made a sound of relief that helped Adam believe that he was making the right decision, even as the angel's colossal palms cradled him close to his warm chest, where the core of his grace pounded. His luminescent wings began to mimic Raphael's, cutting through the tepid air of the Pit with ease. Still, Adam was glad that he couldn't see the Cage very well – glinting more and more, faster and faster, so that he had to wonder if, perhaps, Lucifer knew that his brothers were there, abandoning him yet again – because he didn't want to think about Sam. Lucy wasn't the only one about to be left behind.

"He'll get out," he murmured against Michael's body, uncaring of whether the archangel heard him or not. "He's Sam Winchester, for fuck's sake. This is what they do, isn't it?"

Too bad he couldn't quite make himself believe.

* * *

><p>Hell was sort of like a hill: going up it was considerably more difficult than simply dropping into it. Even held gently against Michael's powerful body, Adam felt the air of the underworld rip away at him, trying to force him back down as the clinging arms of a horror-movie boyfriend who made cliche threats like, "If I can't have you, no one can!" would.<p>

When they broke through the atmosphere that barred Hell from Earth, Adam found his breath stuck in his throat, unwilling to get out. He wished he had an astronaut's helmet, because surely leaving Earth for space was a similar sensation. Man, he had to wonder why three-year-old him had thought being a space-traveler would be so epic. It really wasn't.

Eventually, he shut his eyes and passed out, the whoosh-whoosh of the archangels' wings something of a lullaby to alleviate his discomfort.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **I hope you're enjoying this so far! It promises to be (I hope) a fun-filled ride of snark and schmoop, both! Actually, because it's a big bang entry, I'm not sure whether to list this as complete and only have this chapter available as a teaser, while linking you to the story masterpost (ladyknightanka . livejournal 13921 . html), so you can see the pretty accompanying art and not have to wait, or to upload the rest. You tell me, k?

**R&R: **Other than that, please review with thoughts/praise/critique/hate. It's my first big bang, as I've mentioned, and I want to come away with more knowledge on what could make the experience better, next time. Help me out?


	2. Chap 2: Hansel in the Gingerbread House

**A/N:** Oh my Chuck, it's been almost a year and I'm _so sorry_ for lack of updates. All I can say is, real life got in the way. I started seven classes for uni, my junior year, soon after I posted chapter one, and it just ended recently. I also never imagined so many people would be interested in this silly (not so) little story of mine. I. Just. _Thank you so much_.

**Chapter Warnings: **Coarse language, angst, slight sexual content, minor character death, violence and a disproportionate amount of fluff for a Supernatural fic. No, really, make an appointment with your dentist tomorrow, because too many sweets are no good. D:

* * *

><p>Chapter Two: Hansel in the Gingerbread House<p>

* * *

><p>The gentle <em>tap<em>, _tap_, _tap_ of raindrops against Adam's cheeks, nose and cracked lips brought him back to his senses. He gratefully swept his tongue over what he could reach of the cool liquid, deprived from water for so long – deprived from _everything_, actually – and stared blankly up at a slate-gray sky, streaked with wispy white clouds.

A few feet away from him, Michael and Raphael stood, facing each other down like desperadoes in an old western. Adam almost expected to see tumbleweed rolling up past their feet, but all around them, there were nothing but graves. The words _Stull Cemetery _popped into his head, unbidden, and he thought he remembered being here, once upon a midnight dreary.

"There, I've freed you," Raphael said petulantly. He was now attired as a well-dressed black man, but Adam, if he squinted, could see shadowy tendrils of that other being, the angel made of storms, and the huge, huge wings that dwarfed his human form. "Will you come back with me now, to put Castiel in his place?"

Michael stood taller than ever, if possible, regarding his brother as one would a gnat. "And what of the boy?" he finally asked, sounding what would be exhausted on anyone else, but he was Michael and he didn't _do _tired.

Raphael seemed surprised by the inquiry, while Adam forced himself to sit up straighter, since he was the topic of their scrutiny. Finally, a sardonic smile curled on the other archangel's face. "I'm sure we can think up…suitable arrangements for your precious, hairless mud-monkey." His words drew an unwilling shiver from Adam.

"No!" Michael rippled suddenly, his eyes burning so that rain sizzled and smoked when it touched him. "I will not allow you to hurt him."

"Who said I'd hurt him?" Raphael asked, shrugging nonchalantly. "I can feel your connection – hurting him would harm you, in turn. I wouldn't do _much_, anyway."

"Until I'd handled Castiel's troops for you, and then he'd be fair game, correct?" Michael spoke calmly, but his wings were agitated, barely restrained against his back, and this revealed more than his speech possibly could about his state.

Raphael's smile was positively wicked. "You know me too well, brother," he drawled.

"Then, while I thank you for freeing us, you know I cannot let you go, right? Not when you will only fly back and share my weakness with the rest of the Host." Michael's change in stance was subtle, one leg pushing back against the ground, burning up the bits of grass under his feet, while his wings barely shifted. This was his battle pose.

Raphael's nostrils flared. "Oh," he began, tone dripping with contempt. "You'd kill me – your own brother – to protect the boy?"

"Regretfully," Michael answered, as a sword blazed to life in his hand. It took Adam's breath away, this sword, snaked by red, orange and blue fire, its pommel adorned with igneous rock and glinting diamonds. "You understand, I cannot spare the brother who'd do away with me as soon as my use was up." He sounded genuinely sad.

"You understand," the other archangel returned mockingly, his own blade in hand, reminding Adam of a light-saber, "I cannot spare the weakling, the traitor, who may even be more of a shame than Lucifer. I'll make it quick, since we loved each other once, but I cannot say the same for your little human bitch." Despite how his vessel stood so small, he was completely undaunted against his colossal brother.

Michael growled, sounding more beast than man – well, _angel_, in his case – and charged. Their weapons met in an explosion that would have made Hiroshima look more like a burst bubble in a child's bubble-wand. An oddly metallic clanging filled the otherwise quiet cemetery, along with the occasional eerie howls made by inured angels, still somehow beautiful in their morbidity.

If anyone was wondering, 'the little human bitch', as Raphael had so eloquently put it, currently had his back pressed against a grave-stone that read 'Here lies Ezekiel, dear brother, whose fate rests in the hands of angels'. Adam knew how old Zeke felt, he thought bitterly, and he fought the urge to run away screaming. It was the smart thing to do.

Unfortunately, A+ student or not, he was rapidly coming to the conclusion that 'Winchester' and 'stupid' were synonymous, and both coursed through his veins, keeping him there, his eyes locked on Michael, actually _worried_ about the dick, when he _should _be worried about himself. After all, all powerful angel definitely trumped helpless little human.

When Raphael's blade sliced through Michael's arm and the sharp noise of Michael's pain rang out acutely, odd blood that resembled melted gold more than anything pouring out of his wound, Adam sprang up from behind his flimsy shelter.

"Leave him alone, you bastard!" he shouted at the cruelly smirking archangel, picking up a stone the size of his palm and throwing it at Raphael. It exploded upon contact, doing nothing except drawing Raphael's attention away from Michael and to Adam. Whoops.

"My, aren't you just eager to die?" Raphael asked in a pleasant hum, the eyes of his vessel popping out the way his true visage's had in Hell, as he shot toward Adam like a bullet-train, faster than freaking _Superman_.

If Adam was either Sam or Dean, he might have rolled out of the way, and if that didn't work, he would have gone down both cursing and shooting, like heroes did. Unfortunately, Adam was a scared teenager who'd died too young, solely because of his unfortunate shared paternity with the aforementioned heroes, so he stood there, caught like a deer in the headlights. His mother had always said he had such big, beautiful blue _Bambi _eyes, which only made things all the more fitting.

His life did start to flash before his eyes, but mostly he wondered how he could be such a dumb-ass. First, he'd been zombie-food, then a jail-bird in Hell, and now he was about to play target for an angel. And Dean had thought Adam was so fucking lucky to get his once-a-year baseball games. Screw you, Dean, and all your stupid, unnecessary angst!

He hardly had time to finish the thought before he was being pushed – no, thrown, because _someone _didn't know his own strength – out of the way, across the entire length of the cemetery. He hit his head hard against the already serrated edge of a grave-marker, ironically shaped like an angel, on the tiny cherub's wing, as Michael used the distraction to sweep his sword down into Raphael's stomach, curving it out through his vessel's upper back.

"I'm so sorry, brother," the archangel whispered – or did he shout it? Raphael's mouth opened in response and searing, electric-blue light ruptured out of every one of the angel's orifices, coupled with his ear-drum shattering screams. Even Adam couldn't bear to watch him die, but maybe that had more to do with a possible concussion.

He screwed his eyes shut for only a second, hearing Michael take a shuddering breath in the otherwise silent graveyard, and found that it was too difficult to open them back up.

Huh, that was bad, wasn't it?

* * *

><p>Adam was in Heaven again. He had to be, because the face that was floating in his vision was <em><strong>hot<strong>_ – mentally bolded, italicized and underlined. Yeah, _that _hot. Except Michael had said that Heaven was basically a compilation of a person's greatest hits, so this guy, both literally and metaphorically, didn't apply – though Adam was perfectly willing to rectify that situation, like, ASAP.

The mysterious Adonis had light caramel skin, a thick head of dark, curly hair, somewhat scruffy, unshaven cheeks, and panty-wetting hazel-gold eyes.

Oh, and he was saying, "Adam, Adam," over and over again in his deep, husky voice. Yup, this was Heaven, no matter what _anyone_ said. It didn't help that Adam was lying back on a soft, silk-sheeted four-poster bed and the guy was practically straddling him, so they could instigate a steamy make-out session if he only found the strength to lift his head in the slightest. It was the stuff of dreams – _wet _kinds.

"Uh…who're you?" Adam slurred, coming off some kind of a glorious high. His tongue felt like cotton in his mouth, too heavy to maneuver and nasty to taste, but the words tumbled out all the same.

The man blinked, apparently surprised that Adam was surprised to have an unknown person sitting on top of him.

"You do not recognize me?" he asked, the barest hint of a shy smile crooking his mouth, so that one of his cheeks dimpled.

Adam pushed back with his elbows, trying to prop himself up, and the man fell to sit on his haunches. Adam considered him seriously, but it wasn't really all that hard to guess now that he'd shaken off his sleepy stupor. The signs were all there, anyway: how those hazel eyes flashed with inhuman light, the regent shadows that phased right through the man's clothes and up past their bed's canopy, and even the way his smile, though appealing, looked out of place, uncomfortable, as if he didn't quite know how to do it properly.

"Michael?" Adam pressed, for clarifying purposes, and the archangel nodded.

"Do you like this vessel?" he asked, lightly grasping and tugging on the plain shirt his host wore. He had a boyish bright twinkle to his eyes that reminded Adam of the junior scouts that were put under his charge during camping trips, always eager to show him their newest craft project and delighted by any compliment he offered. "I tried to find someone you would. He looks, somewhat, like your father in his youth, but also like Kristen McGee. She was your first love, was she not?"

Adam's cheeks grew hot at the mention of Kristen. She was his first _something_, all right. "Dude, asking me if I like the meat-suit of some poor sucker that you nabbed is creepy. Picking him because he looks like a mesh of my _father_ and my _ex_…well, that's just down-right rapey."

"Rapey is not a word," Michael said simply, seemingly disappointed by Adam's disinterest. "In any case, this vessel belonged to a pious young man who happened to pass into Heaven several months ago. His body, however, was comatose, useless, and the doctors were ready to let him go. He has no family to mind my employment of him."

Considering the other options, Adam figured that was probably as good as it would get. He sat up straighter and crossed his legs, digging his elbows into them, then scrutinized his companion with a cocked head.

"How's this work, anyway – you having a body? I mean, don't you need some cursed bloodline?" He didn't know much about this angel business, but if Michael could just pluck any old schmuck off the street and into his service, then all the sacrifices the Winchesters – including Adam – had made would be pretty pointless.

Guilt passed over Michael's face, setting off warning-bells in Adam's head at once. "It is because of the bonding – _our _bonding. My grace is connected to your soul, which ranks higher than any necessary link to your blood. Thus, this–" He held a hand against the pious man's chest, "–is acceptable." After a moment of analysis, he added, "Are you feeling better? The bond is responsible for that, as well."

"Yeah..." Adam narrowed his eyes. After spending the better part of twelve years nagging at his mother about John, he could recognize a diversionary tactic a mile away, and he was too old to get distracted by the promise of shiny new toys anymore. "You know, I keep hearing 'bonding this' and 'bonding that', but I don't actually know _what _a bonding is. Funny, huh?"

Michael's eyes strayed away. "I…" He stopped to pick at the sleeve of his vessel's shirt, then tried again upon realizing what he'd been doing. "Perhaps it would be better if you saw for yourself. This room is five-star, which is evidently quite high by tourist-human standards, and you will find a full-length mirror through that adjoining door." He indicated ahead, his arm as straight as an English pointer's back.

Despite having some kind of weird _bond _to heal him, Adam's legs wobbled when he tried to stand up, but he still shook off the archangel's attempt to help him. The carpet under his wiggling toes felt plush and soft, accented the same dark burgundy-red as the rest of the suite, and he trekked through it to the room Michael had mentioned: a bathroom.

It was easy to see why it was rated five-stars, because it looked like it could comfortably belong to foreign royalty, with a Sam-sized hot-tub to Adam's right and, as promised, a wall-length mirror just out front. He could already imagine the sort of kinky things honeymooners got up to in front of the monstrosity, but that was beside the point.

At first glance, there was nothing _too_ different about him. His hair was a mess, and not the attractive kind that he usually went for, but rather all over the place. He'd lost a bit of weight, too, and his blue-green eyes were far too huge in his face, slightly sunken and smudged from worrying way more than your average nineteen year old should. He was also considerably paler – so pale that the light freckles that had dusted his face since childhood stood out more starkly, though he'd believed them gone years ago when camping and outdoorsy stuff had become a regular thing.

But it wasn't really a _big _difference. Heck, he could pass for any other college student during exams week, wearing himself ragged with all-nighters. Other than his dragged-through-Hell clothes, of course, but maybe the bum chic look was in right now?

"Take off your shirt," Michael commanded as he came up behind him, in a tone that brooked no room for argument, usually reserved for his underlings, and Adam wouldn't have been startled enough to shiver if it had been anyone else. Anyone else would have been caught prowling a mile away, reflected in the mirror, but even the inanimate object seemed to defer to Heaven's Sword, waiting until the last possible second to display him.

"You really should buy me dinner first," Adam joked, to cover up how uncomfortable he actually felt. Hell roommates or not, it was just plain rude to ask someone to strip out of the blue.

Michael tilted his head ever so slightly. "The bonding mark is on your back. Remove your shirt if you wish to see it," he said again.

Bonding _mark_? Oh, if he'd gotten a holy-hickey of some sort, there would be literal Hell to pay, no matter how hot Michael was at the moment. A man's body was his temple, you know?

Adam nimbly unfastened the buttons on his gray shirt, borrowed from Dean once upon a time, while trying to quell his panic. It came away, hanging loosely around his forearms, and he released it with a last look at Michael, letting it pool around his ankles and feet.

His first reaction was to wince, because _man_, 'a little weight loss' had been the understatement of a century. He was more bones than boy right now, but nothing else seemed out of place. However, Michael made an amusing twirling gesture with his fingers, as a judge at a beauty pageant might, a contrast to his somber face. Adam turned around and craned his neck to look down at his back.

There was a mark between his shoulder-blades, as promised, about the size of a human head and raised like a long-healed scar. It was an angry bronze-red, almost a burnt orange, and shaped like a ring, displaying a circular patch of unblemished skin in the center. Cookie-cutter shapes, letters of some kind, dotted the fiery ring, and outside the otherwise blank pool were two man-sized handprints, facing away from each other, so that they looked like tiny, skeletal wings – the sort a kindergartener might create by dipping his hands into paint and smacking them against paper.

"What the _fuck_ is that, man?" Adam exclaimed, trying to reach back his arm to touch it. He gasped and nearly fell to his knees when Michael stretched to do exactly that, spreading the flat of his palm fully against the circle. It was hard to explain how it felt, except that it sent a soothing wave of heat pulsing throughout Adam's body, settling in his chest and..._no_, just his chest and _nowhere_ else. And it didn't feel good, either. _Really_!

Michael blinked at the reaction, letting his arm drop slackly to his side, much to his human charge's not-disappointment. "That," he explained plainly, "is the bonding mark." He began to walk away, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

"Wait just a damn minute!" Adam barked, grabbing for his hand. "Don't just say it's a fucking _bonding mark_, then leave! What's it for? Why does it _feel _like that?"

"Like what?" the angel asked innocently, a mischievous dimple hollowing half his face as he smiled, belying his harmless tone. Adam glared at him, not in the mood for playing around, and Michael sighed. "Bonding is an angelic ritual that joins mates. It connects their graces – or, in your case, your soul to my grace – in order to add to their collective reserves of power. It was sometimes done in war-time, to save those who were dying, as it was in a sense for us, but that is a rare scenario. Usually, it is exploited by angels targeted by...cupids."

Adam's fingers loosened on Michael's, then tightened again, almost unconsciously. Luckily, the angel wasn't prone to pain. Adam, on the other hand…

"Couples?" he cried. "Angel _couples_ do this to eternally tie themselves together? To mate their _souls_?"

Michael regarded him hesitantly for a moment, before nodding. "The closest thing I can think of, in human terms, is a marriage. Except that is not permanent." He went on and on to explain about symbolically exchanging marks and powers, but Adam wasn't really listening, even though he knew it would soon become pertinent. How could he, when his whole word had just been rocked like the _Titanic_?

His soul was mated. He was _married_ to an angel – an archangel – and not just any, but the archangel _Michael_. He couldn't believe this.

Adam released Michael and sprinted over to the toilet precisely in time to throw up. He didn't stop spewing up the bile stuff until he felt Michael's intruding hand on his back again – on _it_– and then he abruptly felt good enough to run a marathon cross-country.

"Are you all right?" the angel probed gently, and Adam realized that he was crying, his cheeks and face wet with humiliating tears.

"What did I do?" he whispered. "What did I do that was so bad? What did I do to deserve this?" What did he do that got him stuck with a busy, workaholic mother, a deadbeat father, two brothers that had each other and no use for him? What did he do that made him _deserve_ getting murdered and eaten by something wearing his mother's face, when he loved her so much? What did he do that got him ripped out of Heaven and dragged into Hell? Why _him_?

"You didn't do anything," Michael soothed, somewhat bewildered by his sudden bout of depression. He took a step closer, but Adam reared away from him, nearly tripping over the toilet in the process, and he got the hint. "I _had_ to bond us. If I hadn't done it, you would have died. You didn't deserve that; _I _didn't want that for you."

"But _you_ wouldn't have, would you? You're an archangel! You would have survived till Raphael staged his little rescue, am I right?" Adam spat. When Michael merely nodded, he continued coldly, "Then you should have left me to die. It would have been better than _this_."

The angel stared him down, a frown etched deeply into his features, then nodded. With that, in a flurry of displaced wind, he disappeared, leaving Adam alone in a bathroom with shower-heads that probably could have terminated the mortgage his mother had leaped through flaming hoops to pay.

Adam's legs gave away and he buried his face in his knees, sobbing into them helplessly. He didn't know how much later it was when he finally managed to end his pity party and drag himself to the sink, splashing water on his grimy face before heading to bed, but Michael still wasn't back. He didn't know why he cared so much – why the idea of the angel leaving him was so terrifying – except that it was.

And, as if this _perfect_ day couldn't get any better, he found that he stank like vomit. Awesome.

* * *

><p>Adam had only been half asleep when he heard the muffled flutter of wings, but despite his insomnia, he still wasn't quite ready to get up. He listened from the bed as Michael bustled about without really bustling, the angel's steps quiet as a cat's, though Adam had gotten used to his mannerisms in Hell well enough to pinpoint them now.<p>

The door to the bedroom creaked open and Michael stepped into the room cautiously, as if fearing it had been transformed from a classy flat to a war-zone in the time he'd been away. Knowing the angel, it wasn't entirely implausible.

"Adam?" he murmured, surprisingly kind. A creature that could end the world in a quick fit of temper shouldn't have been able to manage such a tone. "Are you feeling better?" He didn't ask, 'Are you awake?' Adam noticed, but he was Michael, so he didn't really have to.

"What are you doing?" Adam returned, purposely avoiding having to answer the archangel's question. He rubbed a hand across his eyes, embarrassingly heavy and itchy from his time spent as a human water fountain.

"Will you come with me?" Michael requested, shifting uneasily, his coin-like eyes hopeful in his pleasant new face. He could have _made _Adam do whatever he wanted – Zachariah had certainly proved that angels weren't averse to this method – but he didn't, and Adam had to give him brownie points for that, so he nodded and got up. Michael beamed and proffered his hand, which Adam accepted, feeling only a little bit girlishly foolish. He allowed the angel to lead him into their suite's kitchenette.

When they arrived, Adam gaped at the sight of the table, which was decked out in a scarlet silk tablecloth, many extravagant dishes of sweets laid across it, the mouthwatering scent of sugar, butter and fresh-cut fruits wafting their way.

"What's all this?" he asked, sweeping his hand in its general direction. Now that he was looking at it, he realized that it had been a _long _time since he had last eaten – a century, if not more.

"Well, you told me I should buy you dinner. However, it is now morning and I seem to recall from your memories that you dislike eating anything 'too filling' early in the day, as it makes you nauseous." Michael nodded proudly, happy to recall this minute detail about his human friend. Yup, _friend_, because Adam wasn't going to think about marriage just yet.

"So you brought pancakes?" Adam took in the circular treats, piled atop each other into a precariously leaning stack. Some had pieces of fruit embedded in them, like blueberries or strawberries, while others were drizzled with syrups or chocolate, waffled and smooth.

"You like these fried flat-cakes," Michael reminded him earnestly, wedging his hand into the small of Adam's back, thankfully nowhere near that overly sensitive mark, and effortlessly pushing him into one of the two available chairs. Adam complied without protest, staring down a particular pancake, which had a cute chocolate-chip smile and eyes. "They are special. One of my brethren, who enjoyed consuming human foods while sharing messages and holy texts with earthly prophets, once told me that those from Belgium were the very best. That was a long time ago, upon the flat-cake's initial creation, but I hope they are still to your liking."

Adam picked up a silver fork and nudged a fat blueberry that was sitting on the corner of his plate, blackish liquid beading out of it.

"I don't get why you're doing this – why you've done so much for me," he said quietly, watching the tiny fruit bleed.

Michael frowned. "And why shouldn't I? You've done much for me, as well, and…I like you."

"My question is _why_ you like me? I'm nothing special. As Zachariah said, I'm the half-brother, that's all. _I _wouldn't even give up Heaven for me. That's what you did, right, when you fought Raphael? You've completely denounced yourself from all your feathered friends, haven't you?" Not to mention, he was willing to keep healing Adam at the risk of his own life in Hell. None of it leveled equally.

"Zachariah is what your brother would call an ass," Michael declared irritably, to which Adam quirked a brow. Note to self: Winchesters weren't the best angelic influences. Not-quite-flustered, Michael continued, "I like you. I would like to imagine we became friends during our time together, although they were admittedly unfortunate, as far as circumstances go."

"Really?" Adam inquired, his second eyebrow joining its twin, deservedly dubious.

"Yes, really," Michael insisted. "Now, eat your flat-cake."

Adam stared at him a moment longer, before allowing himself a smile. "You know, _this_–" He jerked a finger toward his now clothed back, which still emitted a pleasant warmth from the mark, "–isn't what Beyonce meant about putting rings on what you like."

Michael responded to his teasing with a baffled expression. "I am not sure I understand this reference. What is a Beyond-Say?"

Adam rolled his eyes, choking back a smart retort. Instead, he carefully cut up the pancake, put a small piece in his mouth, and promptly moaned in wanton pleasure. "_Holy fuck_, this is the best pancake ever! It's like a syrupy sweet slice of Heaven in my mouth!" He proceeded to shove more bites in, making his cheeks puff out like a chipmunk's, as Michael watched in bemusement.

"I'm glad you are enjoying this. Yet, I don't believe a dessert can taste like Heaven," the archangel mused. Adam grinned. Michael looked like such a creeper, hunching over him and staring, but confused was a good look on him – kind of, sort of _adorable_.

He kicked out a long leg toward the other chair, knocking it away from the table, and said, "Take a load off, man. Try it for yourself and tell me."

Michael was visibly hesitant. "I acquired the flat-cakes for you."

"Yeah, and I know I've grown up as an only child, but I _am _capable of sharing." Adam made an impatient, long-suffering gesture, about ready to seat the man himself. Okay, so it wouldn't exactly be easy – far from it. He and Mr. Pious Man were about the same height, but Michael had a good fifty pounds on him, probably all muscle, if what his artfully disheveled clothes hinted at was anything to go by. The dude could probably kick Adam's ass even if he wasn't in the possession of an almighty archangel.

Luckily, Michael was the one angel who hadn't ever hurt him, at least purposefully, and he did as Adam bid, sitting on the very edge of the chair with undue caution. He picked up a free fork and, with a last trustful look at Adam, who nodded encouragingly, speared some pancake off the dish, seeming almost fearful as he brought it up to his lips and smudged honey across them. Adam lazily drank in the expressions that passed over his face, amused by the novelty of them, and took slow sips of the orange juice Michael had poured earlier for him.

Of course, he regretted watching so carefully when Michael finally reached his goal, because his face twisted into something right out of a porno – pleased, surprised and straight-up _erotic_. Adam choked a little on his juice, then cleared his throat and wiped the back of his hand across his face.

"My vessel likes this flat-cake," Michael declared delightedly. His eyes crinkled into a brilliant almost-gold, miniature suns in their own right.

Adam couldn't believe he was there, eating breakfast with an angel of the Lord in a fancy hotel-room, somewhat turned-on and, well, not happy so much as _content_.

"Good," he replied, when he'd swallowed down the last of the fluttering butterflies that had been caught in his OJ pulp. Maybe this bonding thing wouldn't be so bad, after all? Then again, maybe he'd just enjoy the moment without letting any of that supernatural stuff bog it down. Baby steps, Adam, baby steps.

* * *

><p>After their impromptu breakfast, Adam piled together the last of their dirty dishes for the hotel staff to pick up and said, "I think I'll go check this place out. You coming with?" He was secretly hoping the answer would be 'no', because he'd spent his every waking moment with Michael for some very long lifetimes, and his sleep-cycle hadn't been what you could call <em>normal<em> even then. There was a point where a lot became _too _much, and what better way to amend the situation than by making full use of this place that Michael had booked?

The archangel appraised him for a moment, then displayed his approval with a terse nod, apparently sensing his human charge's desire for space. "If you must."

"Oh, I'm too curious not to," Adam answered, before reluctantly tacking on, "I can't yet, though."

"Why not?" Michael blinked.

"Well..." Adam fidgeted, staring down at his bare feet and soiled clothes. "Um, it's just, I haven't _bathed_ in a while. It's kinda gross, 'specially considering how I've been wearing this same outfit the whole time – this _dirty _outfit." It wasn't unhygienic to the point of his first revival, when he'd been covered head to toe, nook and cranny, in mud and earth, but he still didn't make for a pretty picture yet.

"I hadn't considered that," Michael admitted, a small frown materializing between his eyebrows. He scrutinized Adam's entire body for a few drawn out, uncomfortable minutes, before murmuring, "I haven't done it before, but I believe it wouldn't be impossible to create a wardrobe for you."

Adam listened incredulously, and when the angel didn't explicate at once, he began clapping his hands, loud in the otherwise quiet room. "Wow, a warrior of the Lord _and _a fashion designer? I'm impressed," he jibed.

Michael frowned. "I do not make couture. Not in that way, in any case. Truthfully, I don't understand the use of human garments. There was a time you felt no shame in displaying your natural state."

"Me, specifically?" Adam asked. "Because, in my defense, I only ran around naked when I was a baby and back then I didn't know any better." Michael opened his mouth to counter, but Adam cut him off, not feeling tolerant enough to engage in a repertoire with him. "Dude, I upchucked my stomach lining yesterday, then didn't so much as gargle before I ate. I feel like something on the bottom of a shoe right now, but if it'll make you feel better, I'll return to my 'natural state' as soon as you zap me some clean clothes to wear for after. It's kinda necessary, you know, if you're gonna shower."

Michael eyed him with annoyance, but eventually relented with a sigh. "If I'm not mistaken, the proprietress of this establishment has books filled with fashionable images. I can use them as my inspiration." Before Adam could say anything else, the angel disappeared in an assault of wing-flaps, and only returned, coincidentally, after Adam had already snapped his jaw shut. What a hint. "Here they are," Michael said obliviously, motioning with his chin to the formidable armload of magazines he now carried. He offered the one at the top of the stack to Adam, who glowered from him to it, as if they'd somehow affronted him, before grumpily receiving it..

It was the sort of glossy publication that department stores everywhere gave out like water, with apparel and accessories for all genders within it, so Adam said, "This is perfect," after only a perfunctory flip through it, nowhere near the adequate amount of patience he needed to compare it to all the others. Judging from the seemingly endless pile, the angel had visited every newspaper stand in the city and wading through them would take hours, anyway.

Michael blinked at his hasty reply, but nodded, carefully retaking the magazine and holding it between both of his open palms. He shut his eyes and began murmuring, while Adam watched him with three parts awe and one part paranoia, recalling what had happened the _last _time the angel had chanted. Right before his eyes, the book exploded in a puff of talcum powder smoke, and then Adam's vision was impaired by a pair of boxer-shorts that had landed directly on top his head, other articles of clothing raining down around him, appearing from seemingly out of thin air.

When he'd pulled off the underwear, he noticed that the floor was now completely covered, and a couple of socks even hung from the rafter. "Huh," he mused. "I think this is more clothes than I had before I died."

"Shall I get rid of the excess?" Michael offered, somewhat earnest under his infamous calm.

Adam bit the inside of one cheek, before he shook his head. "No, it – it really was nice of you to do this in the first place. I couldn't ask for anything more. Besides, the closet in the bedroom is completely empty. Now it can have something more to entertain it than _Narnia_, while we're here." More shyly, he added, "I'm sure it feels grateful."

"Does it?" Michael asked, canting his head to an intrigued angle.

"Yeah," Adam affirmed, and skillfully avoided having to look at the angel by wading through all the clothes, only standing back up when he had a pair of loose jeans, a baby-blue t-shirt with, of all things, Fonzie on it, and a white button down with a single gold stripe along each arm – not to mention the boxers he still held. "I think I've got everything I need. Luckily, it's pretty warm in here. I _hate_ the cold, you know."

It wasn't a question, but Michael still nodded. Adam gave him a last, strained smile, more like a grimace, and began carrying his light bundle back through the bedroom to the bathroom. When the door finally shut behind him, his breath whooshed out in hushed relief.

Sure, it was true that one door, even if it did have three locks – heck, a _thousand _locks – stood no chance against Heaven's mightiest warrior, but Adam could at least trick his mind into believing he was alone, if only for a little while.

His unease receded, anyway, by the time he'd stripped off his clothes and stepped into the shower, shivering at first because the porcelain tub was chilled, then relaxing when hot water from the tap made his toes curl.

It was unbelievable how many mundane things – which you'd probably never spared a thought to previously – you could come to miss when you didn't have them. For Adam, water was one of those things, and he sat on his hindquarters for a while, running his hands under the faucet till they'd wrinkled, before he halfheartedly picked one of the many comfort settings the shower-head offered and stood under the scorching spray.

The jet feature, aptly called masseuse, hit his body so forcefully, and in just the right way, that he groaned aloud, feeling his muscles relax – muscles that he hadn't known were tense in the first place. To add to that, both the shampoo and the body-wash, probably more expensive than a healthy man's kidney, smelled sweet and soothing, like vanilla ice-cream straight from the truck, which immediately reminded him of nights spent cuddled up in his mother's arms, her hair emanating that same scent. He smiled unconsciously at the memory, before grabbing one of the hand-towels the hotel had issued to soap himself up, scrubbing so hard that his skin felt pink and new, as if all the Hell had melted right off of it. He could almost let everything go for the transient period of time he spent in there.

Of course, even that didn't last. After he'd wiped away all the residual suds from his torso, and the shampoo in his hair had settled for the three to five recommended minutes, he hung the small towel up over the pole that held the shower-curtains and ran his fingers through his scalp, his hair standing up in amusing, slicked spikes of gold. Using his palm, he flattened all the protruding locks down past his neck, feeling the soapy water rush along his back, and twisted around, hopeful that the spray could wash off whatever he couldn't get to.

Instead, it felt as if he'd suddenly been thumped _hard_ between his shoulder blades, as if he'd been choking and some good, if ignorant Samaritan – who was _completely _off beat about the Heimlich maneuver, by the way – had decided to try and help him clear his airway.

The worst part was, it didn't feel _bad_. Yes, it made his vision blur, his eyes welling with tears in response, and it jellied his legs so that he had to prop both arms against the wall in front of him, but intermittent, hot pulses from his back also made his whole body flush, and he choked up more than one shameless moan. If anyone was directly outside, they'd probably assume that some old, horny John had picked up an especially slutty hooker, and he was oddly okay with being the whore in question.

Unfortunately, there _was _someone right outside, and he had no problem with mojoing himself in.

"Are you well?" Michael inquired, as he did just that, his suitably worried facade at odds with his actions.

Adam squeaked in reply, though he'd never before known making such a squirrely sound was even possible, and grabbed at the shower curtains like a prude woman from an old cartoon, whom the comic lead hastily apologized to after bursting in. He pulled them around him so that only his angry face showed.

"Get out of here!" he barked, hands too occupied to make accompanying shooing gestures.

Michael was unperturbed and made no move to listen. "I heard strange sounds," he explained, remorselessly deadpan. "I thought you were in pain."

Adam's ears flared hotly again, and he felt as though he could crawl in a hole and die from the mortification alone. "I-I'm fine, okay? I was perfectly fine before _you _came! So just leave! Go!"

When Michael nodded and vanished again, an unreadable expression on his face, Adam felt guilty, so he resolved to apologize after toweling himself off, since his self-consciousness had attributed to his snapping in the first place. Before that, however, he had to deal with one remaining problem: he was still painfully horny.

Damn.

Ultimately, he ended up taking care of business, so to speak. It wasn't that difficult – he was determinedly _not_going to use the word 'hard' – especially since his personal Heaven had been doing the dirty with a particularly hot girl. He was practically an expert.

Or, anyhow, that was how Adam _wanted_ to feel – casual and confident. In reality, his culpability still gnawed at him, not just because he'd bitten off Michael's head, while that was a good starting point, but also because visualizing the faces of all his exes hadn't worked for him at all. Visualizing _Michael_, on the other hand…

Again, _damn_. He was going back to Hell for sure.

Adam didn't quite know whether to be relieved or bummed when he called the archangel's name and Michael didn't appear. In the end, Adam decided to go with his initial plan to explore the hotel, mostly because he still had too much excess energy to stay in a huge suite all by himself, no matter how many nice things it boasted of having.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **I'm very anxious you'll all expect a really epic story and be disappointed by the crack that this is, but at the same time, I hope you had fun with this chapter. I swear on my love of Supernatural, chapter three will be posted way faster than this one was. I'd love to hear your thoughts and am grateful to everyone who read, reviewed and/or put this story on their alerts. :DDD

**Anon Reviews:**

_Wiccawoman:_ Thank you! No, not abandoned, and I apologize for that misconception. I like stories with a positive characterization of Michael, too. He's really a blank slate, because we don't see him for a lot of episodes, but what we do see is somewhat contradictory. :)

_Anaon:_ Again, I'm so sorry it seemed I quit. I haven't! I'm also sorry that this website decided to kill all my links. :( Anyway, I really adore this pairing, too, and there's actually quite a bit of it on livejournal, which is my primary hangout. I wish we'd seen more of both Adam and Michael in canon. They could have been fun. Thanks for your kind words.

_Mamono:_ Thank you so much! I apologize for how long it's been. :(

_Profound Yaoi: _Thanks! I'm delighted you like my characterization of Adam; he's such a fun, snarky character and definitely would have been an endearingly annoying baby brother to the Winchesters, had he been around more.

_Ockermuller:_ I hope you enjoyed it, if you found and read it on my LJ. Thank you for reviewing! :D

_HarleyKinnish:_ I agree, it's sad how little Adam fics there are, but you know, the amount is growing. There's even a mini-bang for Adam on livejournal that will start posting soon (23 stories!). Maybe those will help you like his characters more? I also wish there had been more development of he and Michael in canon. Ah well, what can you do? Thank you for your comment. :)


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